


stop, children, what's that sound?

by mercutioes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, fic compilation for my firebrands OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/mercutioes
Summary: cerulean west: traitor to the bantraesh, trying to be a revolutionary, extremely gay





	1. the sons and the daughters

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. the sons and the daughters - a prequel  
> 2\. the back of my broken hand - a decision  
> 3\. knocked me over, freight train lover - a first kiss  
> 4\. staring at the ceiling for so long - a could-have-been  
> 5\. the milk & the honey - a rendezvous (nsfw)  
> 6\. balestra - a homecoming

In the West family, your squadron is given to you at the age of five.  They’re often older than you, maybe by a few years – perhaps the children of a lesser noble, a disgraced family looking to climb back up.

Jeval is ten when Cerulean meets him, and he makes no attempt to hide his distaste at his position.  Delanie is seven and scared to be away from home for the first time.  They’re given fine rooms in the estate, tutored alongside Cerulean and Halo.

They’re trained in both dancing and fighting together.  Jeval takes to it like a fish to water, grace in every one of his movements.  He’s proficient in quarterstaff by eleven, fencing by twelve, mech strategy by fourteen.  Some of Cerulean’s earliest memories are of Jeval knocking them to the ground, bitterness and resentment in every blow.

Delanie, on the other hand, excels at dancing.  She’s gentle, patient – too young to remember why exactly her parents had sent her away, too young to have built up resentment like Jeval.  She leads Cerulean through the steps of traditional Bantraeshi dances, quietly chides them when they step on her toes or knock their knees together or forget the proper way to clasp their free hands. 

Cerulean excels at none of these things, not like Jeval or Delanie or even Halo, who has completed every tactical combat simulation with perfect scores by fifteen years old.  It’s not that they’re  _ bad  _ at it – they can hold their own with a rapier or in a mech or on the ballroom floor.   _ That’s what your squadron is for _ , says their mother after Cerulean loses to Jeval once again, sniffling and bruised on the training room floor.   _ They’re there to make sure you make it out alive. _

Cerulean spends their time outside of training and lessons in the library, soaking up every bit of information they can find.  They and Halo and Jeval and Delanie study together, sure.  But when the homework is done, Halo and Jeval are the first out of the library, running to go play or fight or explore the scrublands in their mechs.  Delanie goes with them sometimes, but on Cerulean’s favorite days she stays with them in the library and find ways to reach the books on the highest shelves.

And when they’re fifteen and thirteen respectively, they find a dusty book on the history of the revolution and the war that’s different from the rest.  It isn’t Bantraeshi or Landowner but instead written by some Revolutionary academic that neither of them recognize.  Cerulean has no idea how it ended up in the West’s library, but they hide it away in their room.  They and Delanie pore over it until the pages are fraying, until they have it practically memorized between the two of them.  They imagine themselves as dashing heroes, fighting against the establishment that has so wronged them both.  Cerulean looks at Delanie, both their cheeks flushed with bright excitement, and an unfamiliar heat settles in the pit of their stomach that they try their best to push away.

But when they hide the book away under Cerulean’s mattress, they’re Bantraesh again and they learn to fight and strategize and use their mechs and their words and their charm and their poise.  Delanie still dances with them, though they don’t step on her toes as often anymore, and now Cerulean burns wherever they touch.  Jeval still throws them to the ground nine times out of ten, but there’s a grudging respect now that they’re older, now that Jeval understands that Cerulean didn’t  _ ask _ for this.

And then, when Delanie is nineteen and they’re seventeen, Cerulean’s mother informs them that Delanie is leaving their household, that her family has suffered a loss and require an heir, that they’re to sever all contact from her, that she’s packed and about to leave.

They run faster than they’ve ever run, heart pounding and breath coming short.  They tear their room apart before sprinting to make it to the end of the estate’s long driveway in time to see Delanie about to enter a nondescript black vehicle, its windows tinted opaque.  They shout her name, and she turns, eyes widening.

Cerulean can’t find the words, so instead they shove the well-worn book into her arms, pulling her into a tight hug.  She holds them as they cry into her shoulder, stroking up and down their back.  She smells so nice, so familiar, and they can’t… they  _ can’t… _

She pulls away, finally, holds them at arm’s length.  And then, like a dream made flesh, she leans in and kisses them once, simple and soft.

And then she’s gone, driving away with the book Cerulean knows by heart.

The library doesn’t hold the same kind of charm anymore.  The words in the books taste stale on Cerulean’s tongue.  So they go out to find more.


	2. the back of my broken hand

It’s dusk when they finally finish peeling the last of the family crest off the Fluxus, laser cutter gripped white-knuckled in their hand.  They flip their braid over their shoulder, wipe the sweat off their brow.  It’s not pretty, but then again, Cerulean is fucking  _ tired _ of beautiful, of spotless, of sparkling and flawless.  They run fingers over the ragged edges, a strange contrast of shining blue and raw, exposed metal.

“So is this your rebel phase?”

Cerulean jumps, almost falling from the scaffolding.  Halo stands at the foot of the Fluxus, arms crossed across her chest and hair catching the last few dying rays of sunlight.  Her expression is sharp, face pinched as she gazes up at Cerulean’s handiwork.

“Did Mom send you?”

Halo snorts instead of answering and starts to climb the ladder until she reaches Cerulean, pushing herself up to sit next to them on the landing.

“If Mom knew about this, she’d be here herself,” she says, stroking a finger over the edge of the missing crest.  She sighs, bumps her shoulder against theirs.  “Ceru, what the  _ fuck _ are you doing.”

They’re surprised to find that they don’t have an immediate answer.  Any of them sound too trite, too petty, too small:  _ I’m above family lines now _ or  _ There’s more out there than lineage  _ or  _ I can’t do this anymore. _

“I don’t know.”

Halo’s silent for a long moment, quiet stretching between them.

“You can’t just…”  She begins but doesn’t finish, and Cerulean knows exactly how that sentence ends.  They look away, out at the darkening horizon.

“Yeah,” they reply, legs swinging out over empty air.  “Yeah, I know.  But I can’t just sit still, ‘Lo.”

Quiet, then an arm wrapped around their shoulders, pulling them tight against her side.

“I won’t tell Mom,” Halo says, exhaustion in her voice.  “But promise me you won’t do anything stupid?”

Cerulean smiles, tight and small.

“Promise.”

And a week later, they’re rushing down alleyways to escape a too-agile Revolutionary professor and their promise is about as unbroken as the smoldering remains of their mech.


	3. knocked me over, freight train lover

Cerulean finds that they enjoy working with their hands more than they thought they would.  Repairing mechs and machinery is hard work, grease stains and aching backs, but...  It feels good to do something that takes time and patience and sweat.  They come to appreciate the feel of grime under their nails and their hair sticking to their face.

Sku’s a good teacher, all things considered.  She can be impatient sometimes and it takes her a while to truly trust that Cerulean’s there for good, but as the weeks turn into months and it’s clear that Cerulean’s not running back to their family, she relaxes (as much as Sku ever relaxes).  She doesn’t judge them for their mistakes, just corrects them and moves on, and Cerulean doesn’t really know what to do with that - they’ve never been taught without judgement.

They’re working on a mech together now - Cerulean knows enough, ten months in, that Sku trusts them to do the easy stuff by themself.  It’s peaceful, silence broken only by an occasional question or a request for a tool.  Sku leans over Cerulean’s shoulder to inspect their work on the interior of the foot of the mech, crushed in battle.  Her proximity warms Cerulean’s cheeks, even after all this time - when her hand brushes Cerulean’s own on the warm metal, they can’t help but shiver, just a little.  They can’t tell if she notices.

It’s been like this since Cerulean met her, a slow dance around this unspoken thing between them, held back by the Revolution and suspicion and nerves and duty.  Sometimes, Cerulean catches Sku looking at them as they re-braid their hair or cook dinner and they hope faintly that it means their feelings aren’t unanswered, but Sku can be so hard to read sometimes that they can’t be sure.

Sku shifts behind them, pressing closer so she can point out something on the inner workings, and Cerulean shifts, turns just a little bit towards Sku and suddenly their mouths are inches apart and Sku trails off on whatever she had been saying and -

It’s honestly unclear who makes the first move, whether it’s Cerulean’s hand on her cheek or Sku leaning in, but then they’re kissing, tentative and unsure, but it’s  _ sweet _ .  Gentle.  Right.

Cerulean pulls back after a moment to look at her - she’s flushed, and they can feel their cheeks burning to match.  There’s a grease smudge on her cheek, probably from Cerulean’s fingers, and they wipe it away with a thumb, a goofy smile spreading across their face without their consent.  Sku can’t help but laugh in response, months of uncertainty melting away in a moment as she puts wide, gentle hands on their hips.

“What are we doing,” Sku says, not a question but still unsure.

“Whatever we want,” Cerulean replies, leaning in again.  This time, the meeting of their lips is rougher, heat building between them.  Sku presses Cerulean against the side of the mech they’ve been working on, warm metal on their back and Sku’s bulk at their front and they shudder at that, grasping onto Sku’s hair, her broad shoulders, anything they can reach.  It’s like a dam that’s been broken, almost a year of wanting distilled into a single kiss.  Sku tugs Cerulean’s braid free, runs her hand through their hair and they whine into her mouth, hitch a leg up around her waist.

And then, a faint clang of the front door as someone enters the workshop.  They part with a gasp, panting and flushed.  Sku is the first to start laughing and Cerulean follows, the intensity broken.  Someone calls out a faint “hello?” into the cavernous room, and Sku sighs as she extricates herself from Cerulean with one last kiss to the side of their mouth.

“I’d better deal with this,” she says as Cerulean tries their best to fix their hair into something mildly presentable.  They can’t help but pull her in for another kiss, quick and hot, and Sku finally pushes them away, gentle but firm.  “Later.”

“Promise?” asks Cerulean, going for suggestive and landing firmly in a genuine plea.  Sku grins, darts in to kiss their cheek.

“Promise.”


	4. staring at the ceiling for so long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a hookup that never happened but could have

Cerulean honestly didn’t think their apartment was that shitty until Camille ad Astra is sitting on their couch and surveying the space with a distasteful glance, somehow still radiant even in clothes ragged from her imprisonment.  They really want to say something sharp and witty like,  _ you’re picky for someone who just broke out of prison _ , but they’re simply not that person, so instead what comes out of their mouth is,

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Camille laughs, a tired, broken thing.

“Are you old enough to have booze?”

Cerulean rolls their eyes, opens up a kitchen cabinet and pulls out a bottle of something strong and clear.  They pour two glasses and go to sit with Camille on the couch, bringing the bottle with them.  Camille sniffs hers, curls her lip before downing the whole thing in one gulp.

“Long day, huh?”  Camille snorts and reaches for the bottle, drinking straight from it instead of bothering with the glass.

“Shut up and let me drink.”

Cerulean feels like they’re in a fucking fever dream, sitting in tense silence and getting progressively drunker on their shitty couch with  _ Camille ad fucking Astra. _

Eventually though, Camille is drunk enough to start talking, stories spilling out of her fine, fine lips, bitter and sharp like the liquor they’re sharing.  Cerulean’s head is swimming.  They want to pay attention, to listen to Camille rant about her marriage and her wasted youth, but they keep getting caught up staring at her mouth, the way it curls in disgust and bitterness, the way she wraps her lips around the mouth of the bottle.  They try to be subtle about it, but the alcohol is fuzzing their brain.

They’re definitely not being subtle.

So when Camille leans in closer, rests a hand on Cerulean’s knee, they don’t lean away, caught up in her magnetic gaze.  She smirks, cold and cruel but still so tempting.

“God, you remind me so much of me…” she says, leaning in.  Again, Cerulean wants to say something smooth, something suave and witty but instead all that comes out is a breathless,  _ yeah? _

“Too trusting for your own good,” she says, and she’s close enough that Cerulean could lean in and kiss her and they can’t  _ think _ .  “It’s sweet.”

And then Camille closes the distance and Cerulean is  _ lost _ , caught up in the feeling of her lips and her hand on their leg and her hair tickling their neck and shoulder where it falls.  She tastes bitter from the alcohol but they don’t mind, shuddering when Camille fists a hand in their hair, yanking them where she wants them.  She pulls them so they’re kissing down her neck, nails digging into their thigh.

A tiny voice in the back of Cerulean’s head is screaming that  _ this is a terrible idea! What the fuck are you doing, you disaster! _

But when Camille pulls them on top of her on the couch with a sigh, all they can think about is that defeated look on her face when she first turned up in their doorway.  There’s something so enthralling about her, bitter and tired, and Cerulean’s a lot of things, but they’ve never been good at resisting people who need help.

And if this is what Camille needs, they think, gasping as she shoves their head down her body, who are they to say no?


	5. the milk & the honey (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one's a sku/cerulean fuck chapter, so like... be warned

Cerulean's pretty sure Sku has a  _ thing _ for their hair.  She's constantly playing with it, running thick fingers through it when they're sitting on the couch or offering to brush it in the mornings or braiding it in new and intricate ways.  It's sweet -- Cerulean's so used to doing it themself that it feels nice to have someone else to do it for them.

Of course, it has other uses too.  Like when Sku's got them tight by the hair to expose their neck, pressed up against the wall and biting hot kisses down their throat.  It’s overwhelming, the feel and smell and  _ heat _ of her, and they can’t do anything but cling, try and pull her closer, take whatever she’ll give them.  She gets a thigh up between their legs and they grind down, nails scraping up the skin of her back.  She gasps at that, tightens her hand in Cerulean’s hair -- a feedback loop of teeth and nails and fingers clenched in braids, quickly unraveling.  Sku worries a blossoming mark into the pale skin at the hollow of Cerulean’s throat and they keen, dig nails into the back of Sku’s neck.

She pulls back with one last kiss pressed to stinging skin, using her hold on Cerulean’s hair to tilt them to look her in the eyes.  The hunger in her gaze punches the air out of their chest and they can’t catch it again, out of breath and so fucking  _ wet. _

“What do you want?” she asks, and they can’t  _ think _ let alone put together a sentence.  They suck in a breath, lose it quickly again when Sku skims knuckles over their arousal, tight under their pants.  “Use your words, baby.”

“I…”  Sku leans in until her lips are just brushing theirs, tantalizing and sweet.  There are  _ so many _ things they want but right now all they can think about is --

“Can I eat you out?”  Sku grins, leans forward and drags their bottom lip between her teeth as a reward.

“Sure you can,” she purrs, flips them so she’s leaning back against the wall and guides Cerulean gently but firmly down to kneel in front of her.  Their knees hit the floor hard and they scramble with shaking fingers to undo the clasp of Sku’s pants, pull them down along with her underwear.  They look up at her, waiting for permission, their hands restless as they stroke up and down her thighs.  Sku grins down at them, all mussed hair and sweet indulgence in her eyes.

“Hands behind your back,” she says, and Cerulean obeys without thinking, clasping one wrist in their other hand at the small of their back, white-knuckled.

“Good girl,” Sku says, and Cerulean shudders.  “Go ahead."

They lean in and lick up the seam of her, desperate for the taste of her on their tongue.  Sku sighs, readjusts her grip in their hair.  They love doing this, the way they can lose themself in Sku’s scent, her taste, the soft sounds she makes when they circle her clit with the tip of their tongue, the soft praise falling from her lips, the way she tugs them where she wants them.  It’s all they can do to keep their hands behind their back, nails digging into their own wrist.

“You’re doing so well,” she breathes, and Cerulean whines into her, the ache in their knees burning sweet and sharp.  “So good for me, always so good for me.”  She trails off into a low moan when Cerulean closes their lips around her clit, sloppy without the use of their hands, a mix of Sku’s wetness and their own spit running obscene down their chin.

It doesn’t take long before they get her to her peak and she sighs long and sweet, gripping their hair like a vice and holding them tight against her until she stops shuddering.  Sku pulls them up by their hair, flips them again so Cerulean’s pressed up against the wall, their hands trapped behind their back.  She snakes a hand into their pants, leans in to whisper praise into their ear as she strokes them off slow and teasing.

They feel like they can’t breathe, caught between the rough callouses of her hands as she slides along their arousal and the low buzz of her voice -- “sweet girl,” she whispers, and “you’re being so good, beautiful,” and “you look so perfect falling apart for me,” and it’s not long before they’re spilling over her hand, practically sobbing into her hair and leaning heavy against her as their knees threaten to give out.

Sku lets them pant against her ear for long moments until they stop shaking, though their knees still feel too weak to walk anywhere.  When she moves to take a step back they whine, snake their arms around her neck and keep her pressed against them.  She laughs, fond and indulgent, and in one smooth movement she gets an arm under their knees and sweeps them up into a bridal carry.  Cerulean can’t help but giggle in surprise as she walks them towards their bedroom.  They press a sleepy kiss to her cheek, smile at how she’s still a little flushed.

Maybe they’ll ask her to braid their hair before bed.  They know she’ll say yes.


	6. balestra

Soon after the Solar Union leaves and things settle down, Cerulean manages to get most of their stuff out of the West estate.  Halo’s gone off-world and their mother is out of town, elsewhere on Bantral, so they take Sku and a rented truck out to the house.

Normally, Sku would give them shit for the opulence of the mansion, the sleek entryway and the expensive, abstract sculptures in the foyer, but their expression keeps her quiet - she can tell it’s not the time.

“Most of it is upstairs,” they say, leading her up the main winding staircase.  They’re moving with purpose, not bothering to look around, and something clenches in Sku’s chest.

They pause in front of a door, fingertips resting on the handle.  Sku puts a hand on their shoulder.

“I can bring your stuff out, you don’t have to--”

“No,” they say, take a deep shuddering breath.  “No, I… I want to do it.”

They push open the door and the breath whooshes out of them all at once.  Sku peers in over their shoulder.  The room is bare, everything packed up neatly in pristine boxes, stacked against the wall.  It’s clinical, the work of a professional, and clearly done months and months ago - the top boxes have gathered a fine layer of dust.  Cerulean laughs quietly, a punched-out sound.  Wordlessly, Sku pulls them into her arms, holds them close as they take deep, ragged breaths.

“I can’t fucking believe her,” they say.  Their voice is a little wet, and when Sku pulls back there are tears in their eyes.

“Fuck her,” she whispers, and they laugh through the tightness in their throat.

“Yeah,” they agree.  Cerulean turns, wiping at their eyes and squaring their shoulders.  “Okay, let’s do this.”

It takes a couple trips in and out to the truck, but they don’t actually have all that much stuff.  When they’ve gotten all the boxes out of their room, they lead Sku through the rest of the mansion, looking to see if there’s anything they’ve forgotten.  The house is sleek, all curving lines and abstract forms - Sku recognizes the family’s style from working on Cerulean’s mech.  Floor to ceiling windows around the whole outer perimeter of the house let in enough natural glow that they don’t need to turn on any lights.

When they’ve made it through the whole mansion, Cerulean stops them in the foyer again, gazing up at the ceremonial rapiers mounted on the wall.  They look at Sku, something fiercely determined in their eyes.

“Boost me up,” they say, and Sku grins.  She puts them on her shoulders and they’re just high enough to snag the rapiers off the wall.  They’re old, burnished silver with hilts covered in fancy engravings, and Cerulean runs their fingers over the family crest at the base of the blade.

“Didn’t take you for a thief,” jokes Sku, nudging their shoulder.  They laugh, stepping forward and swishing the blade in a complicated maneuver.

“I’m not stealing,” they say, moving through fencing forms with a fluidity and practice that catches Sku by surprise.  “I’m just taking my inheritance a little bit early.”  They tip the sword down and smile at her.  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They head out to the truck and stick the rapiers in a box in the flatbed.  Sku gets in the driver’s seat but Cerulean pauses outside.  They gaze around the estate one last time, drinking it all in, and Sku lets them have a moment of quiet before she starts the engine.  Cerulean swings into the passenger seat, slams the door, and Sku pointedly doesn’t comment on the way their lip trembles.

They don’t look back as they drive away.


End file.
